Knave of Hearts
by MsBarrows
Summary: Zevran's past is coming between him and Owen Amell. But Owen isn't going to give up very easily on the elf. Rated M for m/m smutty bits. An Arren & Co. story.
1. Regrets

Zevran walked alone at the back of the group, thinking and frowning at the ground at his feet instead of keeping his usual wary eye on their surroundings. He'd been feeling unsettled ever since they'd left Redcliffe three days ago. No, that wasn't true – from before they'd left Redcliffe, from the moment he'd woken up the morning of that day, in Owen's arms, and found himself thinking of the last time he'd awoken in someone's arms.

Rinna. That last morning, that final assignment. They'd both been so happy. And then... betrayal, and death. Hers. Not by her, but of her. All the real betrayal had been on Taliesin's part – and his. So very much his.

He thought he'd finally managed to put it behind him, that he'd finally begun to recover from her death – her murder – after all these long months of travel with Arren and his other companions. And yet here she was, haunting him again, his grief and despair almost as strong now, each time his thoughts turned to her, as they had been when he'd fled Antiva for Ferelden. As strong as when he'd heard about the job to slay the two Grey Wardens – a job none of the Crows here in this benighted country were foolish enough to attempt – and decided it was as good a way as any in which to die.

He'd hired a band of small-time thugs, local bravos, to help him with the ambush, knowing he needed to have enough numbers to make the ambush seem real. Not that Crows usually made as obvious an ambush as that had been, not unless they had a point to prove. No, if he'd really meant to kill the Wardens, they'd have died without ever laying eyes on him, and it would have taken no one but himself to accomplish. He'd _meant_ the ambush to go wrong, lethally wrong.

He remembered how relieved he'd felt as Arren's sword swept in a flat arc toward his head, relief that his life was about to end. But the elf must have turned the blade, struck with the flat, pulled his stroke; it had not been his end. He'd woken, with a truly skull-shattering headache, to find himself bound on the ground at Arren's feet. At first he'd expected torturous questioning and then death – hopefully a merciful one, but given he'd just tried to kill the man, he'd had his doubts. Then, belatedly, as the elf calmly questioned him, he'd come to realize that he didn't _want_ to die. And begged – diplomatically of course – for his life.

He was still, even after all these months, astonished that the warrior had accepted his surrender and granted him his life. No Crow would have been as merciful. He'd seen Arren be pragmatically ruthless enough times since that day to know the warrior _would_ have easily killed him, had he so chosen, without a second thought. And yet he hadn't. Why, Zevran had never quite dared to question, merely accepted the benefit of that decision, the gift of his life, and given Arren the loyal service he'd sworn to. He'd begun a new life, then, as Zevran the _ex_-Antivan Crow, no longer answerable to anyone but Arren for his actions and decisions. And for a while, he'd at least been... content.

He glanced up for a moment, eyes seeking out Owen, up toward the front of the group, then dropped back to the ground at his feet. He'd _enjoyed_ pursuing the man, even as exasperating as it had been until he'd realized what the man wanted from him; it had been an intriguing challenge, and apart from the occasional difficult battle he'd had few enough challenges in his life of late. And he'd enjoyed their time together, at Redcliffe, very much so, had felt a brief happiness in the man's pleasurable company that he'd only rarely found even back in Antiva.

Yet now every time he looked at Owen, he felt... uneasy. Torn between wanting to get close with him again, and... not wanting to. Not frightened of him, no, he told himself, just... unsettled.

* * *

><p>Owen glanced across to where Zevran was sitting against a nearby tree, supposedly eating his dinner, though he seemed to be pushing the food around on his plate more than actually eating it. The elf had been avoiding him since Redcliffe.<p>

He'd not thought much of it their first day of travel, it had just seemed to fall out that they didn't have any time together. There'd been the chaos of leaving Redcliffe and their first few hours of travel – the Arl had forgotten that Arren and his companions weren't mounted, and there had been some confusion about how to proceed until Arren finally suggested in mid-afternoon that the Arl's party continue on ahead to Denerim, and the Warden's group would follow on at their own pace. Zevran had walked along in his usual position within their party with Alistair and Briar, some distance behind Owen and Mara, so there'd been no opportunity to talk to him on the move. Then the elf had disappeared off hunting before the meal, and not returned until after everyone else had eaten – granted, with a sizable brace of cleaned game to contribute to their stock of food. And then he'd claimed tiredness, vanished into his tent, and not re-emerged until morning.

By the end of the second day, his excuses for staying away from Owen had become increasingly transparent. By then it was obvious to more than just Owen that something had gone wrong between himself and Zevran. Mara had been extra-clingy that evening, and he'd been glad of her company as he watched Zevran disappear off again – scouting, this time – and not re-appear before Owen had given up waiting and gone to bed.

Today even more of their group had become aware of the strained tension between the two. He'd tried to approach Zevran at lunch, only to have the elf scramble away, making some thin excuse about feeling like hunting some more as he abandoned his food half-eaten and vanished off into the trees. Owen had felt everyone's eyes on him as he turned and walked back over to Mara. She'd hung off his arm the rest of the afternoon, silently offering what little comfort she could.

He didn't understand it. Everything had seemed fine between them – wonderful, in fact – right up until that last morning. He'd woken first, and just lain there in bed, enjoying the contact with the sleeping elf curled up beside him, the luxury of waking with a lover in his arms. A pleasure he'd only rarely been able to enjoy back in the tower, where for years most of his encounters had been brief trysts with still-armoured templars in shadowed corners at night, fast and furtive. Even when he'd moved on to seducing mages as well, the lack of privacy in the tower had meant that most liaisons were brief, and only rarely involved sleeping in one another's beds. Desks in private studies, secluded corners of rarely-used hallways, classroom floors, storage closets, darkened corners of the library, the bathing chamber – those had all been more usual spots. Not beds.

He glanced over to where Zevran had been, and found him vanished again, his plate of food sitting abandoned on the ground by the tree. It didn't look like he'd eaten more than a few bites of food. As he watched, Alistair walked over and picked it up, and turned to look at Jowan.

He wasn't surprised when Jowan sought him out a little while later, and drew him aside to talk privately. About Zevran, of course.

"Look, what happened between you two?" Jowan asked. "It's obvious that _something_ must have. What did you do?"

"I don't know," Owen said unhappily. "One minute things were fine, and the next... not. I don't even know what I did wrong."

"You didn't... hurt him, or anything?" Jowan asked uneasily.

"No! Nothing like that. As far as I know we both enjoyed ourselves that evening, after you'd all left. He was even rather complimentary about it all, afterwards, and he certainly appeared to be in a good mood – he was relaxed, even joking." Owen admitted. "He seemed fine, right up until the next morning, and then... complete change. If I _did_ do something wrong, I wish to the Void I knew what it was... I'd be trying to fix it, to apologize or make it up to him, but you saw how he is, I can't even get close enough to him to _talk_ before he's running away again."

Jowan frowned. "I'll let Alistair know. Zevran's our friend, you know – Alistair and I owe him a lot. If you _did_ do something, neither of us is going to be particularly happy about it."

"I swear, Jowan, on anything you wish me to – as far as I know, I didn't do anything that he didn't want or like. And if I did, and I'm just not realizing it, I will do whatever it takes to make it up to him." He looked away for a moment, then continued quietly. "I... really like him. I was looking forward to spending more time with him."

After a moment Jowan reached out and touched his arm. "I believe you," he said softly. "Maybe Alistair and I can pry something out of him. I'll let you know."

Owen nodded. He retired to his own tent early that night, in no mood to have his usual sparring match with Alistair or speak with the others.


	2. Downward Spiral

Zevran set staring numbly at his breakfast. He knew he should eat, but the very thought of food nauseated him. He forced himself to break off and nibble on a bit of hard biscuit, then stole a glance across the clearing to where Owen was sitting with Mara and Wynne. The mage was looking rumpled this morning, not his usual well-manicured self, dressed in one of his old robes – crumpled from long storage in his pack – with his hair still mussed from sleep. Just then the mage looked up as well, and their eyes met briefly before Zevran flicked his away, looking elsewhere.

He started to lift a stick of jerky, to gnaw off a bit of that, then stopped as the smell of it reached his nose, sending his stomach churning. He dropped the remains of his breakfast to the group and walked off some distance into the trees, just wanting to be alone for a while. He sat down at the foot of a tree, arms wrapped around bent knees and head resting on them, and waited for his stomach to settle.

Mouse showed up a few minutes later. The hound walked over and nosed at him, forcing its head in under his arm until he gave up, snorted in exasperated amusement, and lowered his legs enough that the mabari could put its head in his lap. He scratched the hound's ears for a while, until he heard Arren calling for everyone to get underway for the day, then finally rose and returned to camp to retrieve his share of their gear, the dog running ahead.

He walked over to Arren after gathering his things, ignoring all the eyes he could feel watching him. "I'm going to scout around a little while we walk," he said, carefully casual. "If that's all right."

Arren frowned thoughtfully at him, lips pursing slightly, then slowly nodded. "Take Mouse with you," he said. The mabari gave a woof of acknowledgement, and moved back over to stand beside him, looking up and wagging its tail happily.

"All right," he agreed, and walked off into the surrounding trees again.

His tension eased somewhat as he moved out of sight and hearing of the rest of the party. As he and the hound worked their way silently through the forest, eventually turning to parallel the road, he began to feel more himself.

He considered re-joining the others for lunch, but elected to remain out in the forest instead. Having been this route with Arren several times already, he had a good idea of where the elf was planning to camp that evening, and decided he might as well just head there himself. A day on his own would hopefully put him back to rights.

Mouse chased off after and caught some unfortunate small animal for his own lunch, and Zevran ate part of a hard biscuit, giving the rest to the hound before they moved on again. He found himself thinking in amusement about how much time he'd spent in forests and grasslands and halfway up steep mountains since falling in with Arren; him, a city-boy! Perhaps that was part of why he was feeling so unsettled lately; not enough time with cobblestones underfoot and crowds of people around him. Their time in Orzammar he didn't count as time spent in a city; the place was not cosmopolitan enough.

Perhaps things would be better once they reached Denerim.

* * *

><p>Owen trudged along the road, head down, lost in thought. Over and over he replayed the events of the last few weeks in his head, from when he and Mara had joined Arren's party up through their recent departure from Redcliffe. He still couldn't figure out why things had gone so suddenly, unexpectedly wrong with Zevran.<p>

He remembered his first sight of the elf, keeping a wary eye on his surroundings as Arren's party walked toward the archway leading out from the Redcliffe Castle courtyard. The two elves – Arren and Zevran – had been the first to notice Mara and himself and their templar escort approaching the castle, and it was their coming to a stop that had alerted the others. He'd been distracted after that, first in talking to Arren, then by the unexpected transformation of one of the hounds with the group into Jowan, and in getting the mage safely away from the castle. It wasn't until later, when they'd stopped for a break while waiting for Jowan to recover from exhaustion due to his prolonged magic use that morning, that he'd really gotten a close look at the elf.

And he'd liked what he'd seen, very much. Handsome, strong, graceful, self-confident, gentle toward his friends yet still abundantly _dangerous_ – the man was everything he liked in a partner. Seeing the elf's fascination with Mara he'd at first assumed he have no chance with him, until a chance comment of Jowan's a day or two later revealed that the assassin was just as happy to pursue men as women. By the time they'd found the Dalish clan that Arren was seeking, he knew he was infatuated.

Mara, well aware of his tastes, and having no interest in the elf herself – truthfully, she gave the entire subject of sex a miss, being far more interested in thinking about and learning further magic than in crude things like bodily pleasures – had gleefully machinated from the sidelines, helping to deflect the assassin's attention from herself to Owen.

And eventually it had worked. He remembered Zevran's confrontation of him in the forest, their fight, the feel of being pinned down by the elf, daggers pricking at his neck and stomach, before he'd turned the tables and pinned _him_ down instead, trusting that the elf would not actually follow through on the threat the daggers represented. That first kiss, so hot and sweet, Zevran responding so enthusiastically to it, turning in moments from wary to wanton. He could have taken him right then and there, but even then he knew he wanted more from the elf than just sex. And so he'd stood up, issued his challenge, and walked away, hoping he'd judged the assassin correctly.

The next few days had been slow torture, as Zevran puzzled his way through to the correct conclusion. He'd been ecstatic when the elf showed up, as finely polished in appearance as a rare gem, and dragged him off to offer his surrender to Owen, putting himself in Owen's hands.

And then had come their time together in Redcliffe, both of them testing each other in their own ways. He'd worried a little when he began to realize just how widely experienced the elf was; far more than he himself was. He'd begun to doubt himself a little then, he knew, though he'd done his best to hide it – worried that the elf might prove to be more than he could handle. And yet apart from that first little rebelliousness, Zevran had responded beautifully to everything he's asked; the assassin was wonderfully responsive, highly skilled, and utterly fearless. Owen had begun to let himself believe that things would continue, that as trust built between the two of them he'd be able to indulge in some of the more adventurous acts he'd heard or read of and longed to perform.

What had gone wrong? Had it been some failure on his part, a signal he'd missed catching? Something he'd done that he shouldn't have? Something he _should_ have done and hadn't? Or perhaps Zevran's whole surrender had been an act, the elf only out for a one-time thing after all, and more than willing to dump him once he'd had it. He'd encountered that type a time or two back in the tower; all willing and tenderness and loving until they got what they wanted from you, and then cold and uncaring and uninterested afterwards. No, he couldn't believe that of Zevran, not when he remembered how content the elf had seemed as they cuddled together afterwards, how soundly he'd slept.

He remembered Zevran's hurried words the next morning, as he blithely excused his sudden tension and desire to withdraw. "This is just one of the hazards of sleeping with an assassin. We do not always wake well. Dangerous reflexes tend to come into play when we realize there is another person in the bed with us."

They hadn't rung quite true to him even then, but he'd let it pass. If it was a lie, it had certainly been a _believable_ one. Maker knew during his child-thief days he'd seen clear examples of that very phenomena. He remembered the time one of his fellow thieves had almost lost an eye once, waking their master up too suddenly one morning. One moment Sid had been leaning down to excitedly shake the woman awake and pass her some bit of news he'd picked up, the next he'd been pinned on the floor, her dagger pressed into the skin under his eye, and her only half-awake yet. Sid had sported a bruised cheek for days afterwards, from the clout she'd given him over his stupidity.

As lost in thought as he was, it took Mara tugging on his arm to realize they'd reached their camp spot for the night. He performed his share of the camp chores poorly, unable to keep his thoughts on even simple tasks like gathering wood for the cook fire. He frowned when he was handed a bowl of stew and realized Zevran still wasn't back. "Where's the elf?" he asked concernedly, looking around.

Arren and Alistair exchanged a look. "Near. Or at least Mouse is, and he should be sticking close to Zevran," Arren replied.

"You can tell where your mabari is?" Mara asked, sounding surprised.

Arren smiled at her. "Yes. I can sense him, at least when he's not too far away."

"Wonderful! How does that work?" Mara asked, now sounding fascinated.

Alistair and Arren exchanged another look. "Grey Warden secrets, I'm afraid," Alistair told her.

That drew a disdainful sniff. Owen almost smiled, until he thought of Zevran being somewhere nearby, but avoiding approaching the camp. Because of _him_. He appetite for supper vanished. He put aside the bowl of stew. "I'm turning in early," he said, and went to his tent.

He curled up in his bedding, feeling utterly worthless. If only he knew what he had done wrong!


	3. Two Words

Zevran looked up as Mara crawled out of Owen's tent. Everyone else had been up for a while, most had already breakfasted and were beginning to pack up their things for another day of travel. He wondered what was keeping the mage.

Mara walked over to Arren and talked intently to him for a minute, gave Zevran a look he couldn't read, then turned and walked over to where Jowan and Alistair were still breakfasting and sat down beside Jowan, leaning against his shoulder.

"Listen up, everyone," Arren called out. "We're going to stay here and take a rest day. Get camp chores finished and then you all have the rest of the day free. Don't stray too far from camp, I don't sense any darkspawn near but we all know what other sorts of dangers this forest has."

A rest day? They usually only took those if they were badly tired, were desperately in need of a day to catch up on gear repair and had reached some relatively safe location, or... someone was sick. He looked at Owen's tent for a long moment, wondering what was going on, then looked up again at the scuff of boot on gravel and found Arren standing a few feet away, looking at him. "Come with me," he said quietly. "We need to talk."

Zevran followed Arren away from camp, far enough into the trees to be out of sight and earshot of the others. The warrior stopped finally, and turned to look Zevran over for a long moment, arms crossed, then finally spoke. "It's clear to pretty much everyone that something happened between Owen and yourself when we were at Redcliffe. You don't have to tell me what, though I'm sure I can guess at least the general outline – something to do with sex. I wasn't going to say anything, I was hoping whatever the issue was, you two would sort out on your own, or it would blow over. But that's clearly not happening, and it's now reached the point where it's affecting the group's ability to function. So you tell me, Zevran, whatever it was that happened – is it something I need to know and do something about? Did he _do_ something – or did _you_ do something? Do I need to let Owen know that he's not welcome in my group? Or am I misreading the situation entirely?"

Zevran flushed and hung his head. "It... it was nothing _he_ did," he managed to choke out after a moment.

"Something _you_ did then?"

"Not... as such," Zevran hedged.

"Zevran..." Arren said, a warning note in his voice. "If I have to pry all the gory details out of you to find out what in the Void is going on, I will. Tell me as simply as you can, is this something he needs to be apologizing for, or you, or both, or neither?"

Zevran winced. "Me," he said quietly. "I... may have led him on. Not intentionally, I swear on my oath to you! And now... I do not know what to tell him."

Arren sighed. "Keeper Marethari was always big about having people talk out their problems. Didn't always work as well as she hoped, but let's start there. I want you to go and talk to Owen. Now."

"I don't know what to say," Zevran said, feeling genuinely distressed at the idea. He always knew what to say, had a joke to make, could deflect the topic and change the conversation to something else... but not with this. Not with Owen.

Arren was giving him a _Look_. "Try starting with 'I'm sorry', Marethari always said those words were a good place to begin when you couldn't think of any others to use. Come on," he said, and led the way back to camp.

They got as far as the edge of the clearing, and Zevran came to a stop, looking at Owen's tent and not at all sure he could manage to walk over there and climb into it.

"Zevran... if I have to, I'm going to get Sten and Alistair, and we'll carry you over there and stuff you in through the door. I'm sure you'd rather keep whatever shreds of dignity you have left," Arren said very quietly. "Go over there, and talk to the man. And no coming out until either the two of you have resolved the issue somehow, or he kicks you out. Do you understand?"

Zevran winced, picturing the scene. "As you say," he said, and forced his legs into motion.

* * *

><p>The flaps were still partially unlaced from Mara having gone in to speak with Owen earlier. He slipped inside, and crouched down just inside, part of him wishing to turn and bolt right out again, part of him feeling fairly certain that if he did, Arren indeed would carry through on his stuffing-into-the-tent threat.<p>

Owen was cocooned in his bedroll, one bare foot sticking out the end closest Zevran, his head hidden somewhere at the other end. "Go away, Mara," he grumbled, voice thin and reedy.

"It is not Mara," Zevran said quietly.

Owen jerked, and his head rose out of the far end of the bedroll, eyes glittering in the dim light filtering through the tent canvas as he stared at Zevran. "Zevran!"

Zevran wanted to wince at the sight of the mage. His hair was tangled, and he had dark bags under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept much lately. "What do you want?" the mage asked. Even his voice sounded tired, thing and raspy.

Zevran looked down at his hands."We need to speak, you and I. Privately. Or at least as privately as a cloth tent in the middle of an encampment of other people allows us," he added, trying for a light-hearted tone, and sure he was failing miserably.

Owen made a strangled sound – an attempt at a laugh, he thought – and sat up, then made a gesture with one hand. The fabric of the tent glowed faintly for a moment, and as the light faded, so too did all sounds from outside. "No one can hear what we say, now," Owen said. He scrubbed at his eyes with both hands for a moment, then blinked and looked at Zevran. "What do you need to say?" the mage asked, voice filled with trepidation.

Seeing Owen without his usual self-confidence made Zevran ache inside. He closed his eyes, searching for what words he should say. And could think of nothing, except the words Arren had told him. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

For a moment the tent was utterly silent. Then Owen spoke again, voice low and resigned. "So am I. Whatever I did that was wrong, that made this... not work, that makes you want to end it... I'm so sorry for it..."

Zevran stared at the mage in shock for a moment. Owen thought _he_ was the one in the wrong! And suddenly the mage's careworn appearance made sense, and Zevran felt appalled that he could have been so blind. "_Brasca!_ No, Owen, it was _nothing_ you did! You were _magnificent_. It was I," he exclaimed, then looked away, voice going low and bitter. "I am the one at fault. I thought I was... ready, to become close with someone again. I was wrong. I am... ashamed, and I am sorry that I have hurt you by my silence. The fault is mine."

There was a long silence. Then Owen gave a quiet sigh. Zevran stole a look at him. He was slumped forward, elbows resting on knees and long fingers carded into his tangled hair, his head lowered. Zevran could see now that his nails, usually so flawlessly manicured, were looking ragged and chewed. Maker, how he must have hurt this man! He must do what he could to set it right.

* * *

><p>The relief of hearing Zevran's words made Owen feel faint. Not something <em>he<em> had done. _Not_ something he had done! He drew a deep, shuddering breath and raised his head, looking at Zevran, hunkered down over by the entry. "What happened?" he asked.

Zevran looked away again, unable to meet his eyes. "I... had a very bad experience, a year ago. I thought I was past it. But waking in your arms..." he broke off.

"It reminded you," Owen said softly.

"Yes."

"Does this mean... do you want to break things off?" he asked, worried what the answer would be.

"I..." the assassin paused, then shook his head. "No. I know I should end things, before either of us get hurt any further, but... no, I do not _want_ to break things off. Or... do you wish to?" he ask, voice trailing off to a near-whisper.

"No," he said quietly, and held out one hand. "Come here."

Zevran gave him a nervous glance, then rose to a crouch and shuffled closer, stopping just beyond easy reach.. Owen snorted and leaned over – not too quickly, not when he was dealing with an assassin with Maker-knew-what reflexes – grabbed him by the arm, and tugged him closer, so the elf was sitting on the tent floor right beside him, facing toward him. He studied Zevran intently for a long moment, ignoring for now Zevran's inability to meet his eyes. The assassin looked as tired as he himself felt, and his slenderness was verging on gaunt. Owen frowned, trying to remember the last time he's seen Zevran eat a proper meal. "When did you last eat?"

Zevran shrugged. "I had something for breakfast."

Owen's frown deepened. "A real breakfast, or just a bite of something? When did you last _really_ eat?"

"I... do not know." Zevran admitted after a moment.

"Fool," Owen said, scolding softly. He reached out and dragged his backpack closer, dug in a side pocket for hard biscuits and dried fruit, picked up one of Zevran's hands and and piled food in it. "Eat," he ordered.

A very faint fleeting smile crossed Zevran's lips; if Owen hadn't been watching him so closely, he would have missed seeing it. "As you say," the assassin agreed, and began nibbling on a corner of one biscuit, not with any apparent hunger, but with a decided air of doing what he was told.

Owen crossed his arms on top of his knees, rested his chin on them, and watched Zevran silently until he'd worked his way through all of one biscuit and two pieces of dried fruit, and started work on another biscuit. The assassin stole little glances at him at first, eyes flicking toward him, then away again, and slowly relaxed, eventually looking back at him steadily.

"Can you tell me about what set you off like this?" he asked finally, once Zevran seemed to have calmed down.

Zevran stopped eating, answered quietly. At least he kept his eyes on Owen this time as he spoke. "If I could tell anyone... I have told no one about it. Not even Arren, and I have told him more truth about my past than any other living man. I..." he paused, paling again. "I cannot. Not yet."

Owen nodded, reaching out and closing one hand about the nearest part of Zevran he could reach, his ankle, and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Then don't. Tell me some other story. Something about your past that you haven't told me before. Anything. And keep eating."

Zevran nodded. He forced himself to nibble at the biscuit again. The pale, pinched look receded, and after a minute he started talking. It proved to be a lengthy story, and judging by the well-practised cadence and turns of phrase, one he'd likely told many times before, about one of his first jobs with the Crows, and a female mage he been assigned to assassinate. The way he told it made him sound like an innocent young fool. Somehow Owen doubted that was the true story; Zevran may have been young _physically_ at the time, but innocent? Or a fool? No.

"Now tell me the _real_ story about that," he asked when Zevran finished.

It won him a weak laugh, and a side-wise smirk from the assassin. "Only Arren has asked me that before. You and he are both dangerously observant and intelligent men. I warn you, the real story is not half so charming." He resumed talking, starting the story over from the beginning. It definitely wasn't as nice, and nowhere near as amusing a story, and Owen suspected the elf was still editing out the ugliest parts of what _really_ happened. But he didn't press; they needed to build more trust before them before Zevran would be comfortable enough to touch upon whatever things had left such gaping wounds within him.

Zevran finished the fruit and biscuits at some point. Owen handed him some strips of jerky, and took some food to nibble on as well, as he hadn't breakfasted either, and eaten very little supper the night before, a fact his stomach was now reminding him of. At some point towards the end of the story, his sleeplessness of the last few nights began to catch up with him. He lay down again, curled up on his side, listening to Zevran's voice until the elf fell silent.

"An ugly story," the elf said after a minute. "My past is filled with many such. I am not a _nice_ man, Owen."

"I didn't want you because you were _nice_," Owen told him. "I want to hear all your stories, even the ugly ones." Especially the ugly ones. "I want to know yours truths, not just your pretty tales. I want to know _you_, not just the mask you show to strangers."

A very long silence. "I will try. Putting aside my mask... it will not be easy," Zevran said uneasily.

Owen snorted and smiled slightly at that. "If I wanted _easy_ I wouldn't be so blighted attracted to a dangerous assassin who takes creative liberties with instructions."

A short strangled laugh. Owen raised his head enough to smile at the elf. "Lie down," he told him. "I need to sleep a little, and I want you to stay here while I do. Once I wake up we can get started on cleaning up the mess we've both allowed ourselves to become. All right?"

Zevran nodded. He lay down on his side, facing Owen, keeping a wide space between them. But when Owen put out his hand, letting it lie on the floor between them, he reached out and rested his own over it. It was enough, for now. Owen closed his eyes, and slept.


	4. Rapprochement

He didn't think he'd be able to sleep. He lay awake a while, just watching Owen's sleeping face, and eventually must have drifted off. When he awoke again, the angle of light had changed enough that he judged it sometime in mid-afternoon. Owen's spell of silence had faded away; he could once again hear the faint sounds of others in the camp outside, along with the breeze in the trees.

His hand was still resting on Owen's. He considered pulling away, but the contact was... comforting.

Mouse barked, not too far away, and Owen stirred restlessly, then muttered something under his breath and opened his eyes. He smiled as soon as he saw Zevran, and his hand closed around the assassin's and squeezed slightly, before he drew it back and pushed himself up on one elbow, looking appraisingly at Zevran. "Hungry?" he asked. "We slept through lunch."

Zevran would have said no, but at the thought of food his stomach gave an audible rumble. Owen snorted and dug into his backpack again, finding more jerky and biscuits for them to share.

"Did you sleep at all?" the mage asked.

"A little," Zevran said. "So... now what?"

Owen glanced over at him. "That depends. Now that you're eaten, and rested, and had time to think – do you still wish to maintain your surrender? Or revoke it?" he asked, then held up one hand as Zevran started to open his mouth. "Do not answer immediately. Consider your answer while you eat."

Zevran nodded, and resumed chewing. His first impulse had been to say that, yes, of course he wanted to maintain his surrender. But... Owen was right, for it to mean anything, his answer deserved more consideration. He thought back over the period of time from when he'd finally become aware of Owen's interest in him, to now. His initial intrigue at realizing the mage wanted him, that he had been subtly flaunting himself before Zevran for some time. And not so subtly a time or two as well, he remembered, a smile twitching at his lips for a moment. He really had been distracted by his lust for the lovely Mara, not to have noticed the signals the male mage had been giving off all along. And then had come Owen's challenge, which intrigued him even more, and his resultant anxiety as he scrambled to decipher the mage's personality – when he had, he admitted in retrospect, paid not nearly enough attention to him prior to that point – and puzzle out just what it was he wanted.

He shivered, remembering the heated kisses Owen had teased him with, how _effortlessly_ the man had brought him off in reward when he finally made sense of the mage's nature and offered himself to him. Then their three days together in Redcliffe, cautiously feeling their way together, Owen testing him even as he tested Owen, both of them courting each other. And that last night, when they'd effectively consummated the courtship... just the memory of it was enough to bring a stir of heat to his loins.

Owen still intrigued him, and he found the man's odd blend of dominance and gentleness fascinatingly attractive; a blend he'd never have thought truly possible, at least based on past experience. Small wonder it had taken him so long to solve the mage's challenge. He'd had forceful lovers before, and gentle ones, but never someone who so effortlessly embodied both. His master back in Antiva had come the closest, and with _him_ it had been a studied gentleness, a matter of the master withholding the cruel side of his nature, keeping it in abeyance whenever he bedded Zevran. Owen, on the other hand – he couldn't imagine him being cruel. _Acting_ cruel, yes, if the two of them needed or desired that, but it would be as much an act for the mage as his master's gentleness had been for him.

He _wanted_ that. Someone he could trust not to intentionally hurt him. Someone in whose arms he could abandon himself, let down his defences, give up control, and still feel safe.

He finished his last bite of biscuit, and looked again at Owen.

"Yes. I still wish to maintain my surrender," he said, calmly.

Owen smiled, warmly and happily, and Zevran felt some of the inner tension he'd been knotted up with for days ease slightly.

* * *

><p>Owen smiled, filled with relief. He hadn't lost the elf; there was still a chance for them to work things out. "Good," he said, softly.<p>

"So... now what?" Zevran asked.

"Well, right now I think I need some cleaning up," Owen said. "I'm a mess – we both are. So I think the two of us are going to get up and go have a wash at the stream, then you're going to help me get this demon's nest my hair has tangled itself into back under control. And we need to do something about my hands," he added, grimacing at his chewed-up nails. "And then a proper meal, with everyone else."

He looked over at Zevran again. The elf was looking calmer than he had earlier, but Owen didn't let that fool him; he was certain it was a surface calm only, that underneath the assassin was still in turmoil. He remembered the look in Zevran's eyes earlier, when he'd mentioned his past hurt, and again, when he'd been unable to talk about it further. It was a look Owen had become familiar with, in the tower, after Uldred's failed rebellion. He'd seen it too often then, in the eyes of those who _hadn't_ made it to the comparative safety of the storage vault with Mara and himself, those few who'd survived when the remainder of the tower was overrun by blood mages, abominations and demons. All of them had witnessed or undergone horrific things, and while they'd survived in body, they'd been broken inside, in varying ways and to different degrees.

Some of them had begun to heal, eventually. Some few had not. And some – thankfully very few – had taken their own lives afterwards, unwilling to live with their memories and nightmares. It had been hardest on the few mages who'd survived; to a man, they all feared sleeping, because sleeping took place in the Fade, and the Fade was where demons lived.

Zevran had had that same look, for a moment – of something wounded inside, bleeding where it couldn't be easily healed. But he would have to try; even if Zevran had rejected him, he would have had to try, though it would have been far harder to manage. For now, he would focus on simple, surface things; getting them both cleaned up, at least looking and acting whole again. In the longer term... well, he'd have to work on gaining the elf's trust first, until Zevran was ready and willing to talk about what had hurt him so profoundly. And then work on helping him to heal from it, and to live with whatever scars it left behind.

It made things at least a little easier that Zevran had passed control of himself over to Owen. It simplified things for the assassin – it removed the burden of responsibility for his own life and choices for a while. And simplified things for Owen, as well, since he could see to it that the elf ate properly, slept enough, looked after himself, kept busy, all under the guise of exercising his dominance over him.

"You can either fetch your own bathing things, or share mine," Owen told him. "But first – come here."

Zevran moved closer, knelt down beside the mage. Owen leaned over a little, slipped one hand up to twine into the elf's hair, and kissed him. Not a demanding or heated kiss, just a gentle one, acknowledging the assassin's decision to remain. They were both smiling when it ended.

"All right – time for both of us to get moving," Owen said.

"As you say," Zevran agreed.


	5. Quiet Time

Zevran followed the mage out of the tent, feeling dreadfully self-conscious. It was not an emotion he was used to feeling, and it made him feel all unbalanced, as if something was out-of-kilter. He kept his head down as he darted over to where his own backpack still lay, abandoned since this morning, and dug out his own bathing things, then trotted back over to Owen's side.

Owen led the way off to the nearby stream. Unlike many of Arren's preferred campsites, this one didn't have a pond suitable for swimming, just a narrow spring-fed stream, rocky and cold. Zevran helped Owen out of his robe, then stripped down himself, and the two men waded out into the water. They had to crouch down on their haunches and use their hands as scoops to splash water over themselves, before they began washing. Owen moved to perch on a small boulder in mid-stream, while Zevran remained crouched near a smaller rock, handy to put his soap and washcloth down on.

"Come and help me wash my hair," Owen said after a while. Zevran nodded and walked over, scrambling up on the rock behind the mage so he could reach his head. Washing Owen's lengthy mane was not as easily accomplished here as it had been in a proper bathing chamber back at Redcliffe Castle, but he did what he could. Rinsing the hair afterwards was the hardest part; Owen had to crouch down in the stream, leaning forward, while he and Zevran both splashed handfuls of water over it.

"You might as well wash your own as well," Owen told him, once they had all the soap out. "I'll get started on removing the tangles from mine."

Zevran nodded and stripped out his braids. His own hair was much easier to clean than Owen's, being only half the length, and not in such a mess. By the time he'd rinsed and given it a quick finger-combing, Owen had his own hair ordered enough for them to be able to return to camp without looking as if birds had been nesting in their hair. They pulled on clean smallclothes, socks and leggings, and their boots, and carried all their things back toward camp, towels hung around their necks to catch the drips from their still-wet hair.

He still felt a little self-conscious, but nowhere near as bad as earlier, and this time he kept his head up as they walked back over to Owen's tent, though he kept his eyes on the man's back rather than looking around. Still, he had excellent peripheral vision, and it was telling him that no one was showing undue interest in the pair of them. Politely ignoring them, if anything. Another bit of tension eased away.

At the tent he put Owen's things away, while Owen made himself comfortable on the ground outside the tent, and fetch out the mage's comb and brush from his pack. He knelt behind him, and set to carefully untangling and combing out Owen's hair, until it lay smooth down his back.

"My turn," Owen said, turning his head to smile at the assassin. "Come sit in front of me, and give me that comb."

"You don't have to..."

"I _want_ to," Owen insisted, so Zevran did as he was told. Owen set to work, picking out the few tangles Zevran's shorter hair had left after its earlier finger-combing. "I used to take care of Mara's hair for her, like this," the mage said after a while. "Hers was even longer than mine, before she cut it all off. I liked looking after it; I think she kept it as long as she did because she knew that."

Zevran glanced across the clearing to where the tiny elf mage was engaged in conversation with Morrigan, about magic again judging by their serious expressions and the gestures they were making. "As beautiful as she is with almost no hair at all, I imagine she was even more charming with long," Zevran observed.

Owen laughed. "I suppose so, though seeing as I've always been more interested in the charms of males, I'm hardly one to judge. Actually I suspect that's part of why she cut it off. Got tired of people getting all wide-eyed over her. It distracted her from her studies, you see."

"Truly? What a shame."

"There, all done," Owen said, sounding satisfied, and Zevran was startled to realize, when he reached up and touched his hair, that the man had even redone his braids, so deftly that the assassin hadn't even noticed what he was about. "Fetch your pack; you're moving into my tent," he added, voice sounding more than a little self-satisfied.

Zevran darted him a look, then slowly smiled. "As you say," he agreed, and rose to his feet, walking over to pick up his pack and other belongings, and bring them over. The two of them went inside, and finished dressing. Then Zevran did what he could to tidy up Owen's poor abused fingernails. That was a particularly pleasant task, he thought, sitting cross-legged knee-to-knee with Owen, holding the mage's hand steady while he carefully trimmed and filed his nails, smoothing the ragged ends. His reward was a pleased smile and another kiss, as gentle as but rather longer than the one they'd shared earlier. They were both a little out of breath when it ended.

"Stew's ready!" they heard Oghren call from somewhere outside.

Owen's smile deepened. "Let's go eat."

Zevran nodded, and followed Owen out of the tent and over to where everyone was gathering near the fire. Everyone else was already seated by the time the two of them reached the circle. Owen paused, and glanced around the group, then turned to face Arren. "My apologies for delaying us," he said.

Zevran looked to Arren also. "My apologies as well," he said quietly. "It was my fault."

Arren smiled at the two of them. "No harm done," he said quietly. "We're in no particular rush to reach Denerim this trip anyway. Will you both be ready to travel again tomorrow?"

"Yes," Owen said, voice calm and assured. Zevran settled for a nod of agreement.

"Good," Arren said, then returned his attention to his own meal, and the witch settled at his side.

Owen stepped over to where Mara was sitting near Alistair and Jowan, settling in on the ground beside her. Zevran filled bowls of stew for both Owen and himself, and carried them over, sitting down on the opposite side of Owen from Mara. She'd already scooted over to lean against Owen's side, and gave Zevran a pleased, welcoming smile as he passed one bowl to Owen.

It was a quiet meal, no one seeming to be in any real mood to converse, but still a pleasant one overall. And afterwards they resumed the sparring and weapon lessons that neither had been up to for the last few days, just short bouts, but enough to make everyone feel that some normalcy had returned to the group.

They retired to Owen's tent soon afterwards, and spent some time in finding places in the small tent for Zevran's things and spreading out his bedroll, close to but not quite beside Owen's. Owen looked thoughtfully at Zevran for a long moment afterwards, then made a small gesture, restoring the spell of silence he'd used earlier.

"Strip," he growled.

* * *

><p>Owen had been unsure at first whether or not to do anything with Zevran tonight. Seeing the way the elf shivered in anticipation at his order, he felt a surge of relief. Yes. This was something they both needed, another sign that whatever had so upset Zevran the other morning would not be allowed to change things between them. He watched through half-lidded eyes as the elf removed all his clothing, managing the task gracefully even in the close confines of the tent. He was half-erect by the time Zevran was naked, and the elf was even more so.<p>

"Lie down, on your back." he ordered, then once Zevran had arranged himself, began to strip as well. Not as gracefully, he knew, but he took his time, neatly putting away each item of clothing as he proceeded, letting the anticipation and his arousal build.

Naked at last, he rolled over, kneeling over the elf's legs, his knees planted to either side of his, sitting back with most of his weight on his own legs but some resting on Zevran's shins, where they lay trapped between his own. He sat over him like that for a long moment, running a heated look up and down the elf's body, then moved his hands from his own thighs to rest on Zevran's instead, and slowly ran them up and down his legs, fingers spreading wide on the upstrokes and then sliding together again as he moved them back down. He put a little weight behind the motion, and left his thumbs come teasingly close to Zevran's balls, almost-but-not-quite touching at the top of each sliding stroke, watching as he came fully erect.

He moved then, leaning forward, planting his hands to either side of Zevran's head, leaning down to kiss him. Not a gentle kiss this time; a demanding one, a thorough plundering, a claiming of his mouth, until Zevran was moaning under him, the elf's hands risen to tangle into his hair. Finally he drew back, just a little. Zevran's eyes were blown and dark, his lips red and swollen. Owen turned his head, licked at one of Zevran's wrists. "Let go," he said, softly. Zevran nodded, withdrew his hands from Owen's hair, letting them drop to the ground, upturned on the ground above his head, an unaffected but thoroughly wanton pose. Owen felt a shiver of increased tightness in his groin. "Stay just like that," he whispered. "Don't move."

He sat back again, letting his hands come to rest on his own thighs. Again he studied Zevran. He could see the tension in the elf's body, how difficult it was for him to just lay still right now, when his body was aching for further stimulation, for movement, for _friction_. Owen smiled, slowly, and picked up a container of oil he'd put handy to his bedroll earlier. He could have used a spell, but this was better, the oil colourless and scentless and much more slippery than the thick grease would have been. He poured out a generous dollop, and spread it over himself; his cock, his belly, a little on his upper thighs. Zevran watched intently as he did so, doubtless already making guesses as to what they were going to do together. More oil, and this time he slicked up the elf, taking his time at it, fondling his erection until the elf was shuddering with the effort to stay still, little moans and gasps and hissing sounds escaping from him as Owen teased him.

Finally satisfied, he leaned forward again, grasping Zevran's wrists and pulling them further up above his head, resting his forearms to either side of them and sliding his own knees a little further down. As he lowered himself further, pinning the elf down under him, his groin came to rest over the elf's, their erections trapped together between oil-slicked stomachs.

The only thing he didn't like about how much smaller than he the elf was, he quickly decided, was how it put so much of him out of easy reach. He lowered his head, nuzzling at the top of the elf's head for a moment, breathing in the sandalwood-and-musk scent of the soap he'd washed it with earlier. He let just a bit more of his weight down on the elf, and began to gently rock himself backwards and forwards on hands and knees, the motion rubbing them together, erections sliding back and forth against each other, rubbing against oil-slicked skin. Zevran moaned, back arching, groin thrusting up against Owen's, his head tilting back with eyes shut. Owen chuckled softly, ground down a little harder for a moment, leaning down to kiss the elf's forehead, and lick at his closed eyelids.

"Like that, do you?" he growled right beside one ear, before running his tongue once up the edge, with little teasing flicks. Zevran's answer was a string of curses. Owen grinned, and continued rocking, sometimes taking more of his own weight on his knees and forearms, making their contact lighter, more teasing, and sometimes letting himself bear down, grinding hard against the elf until they were both gasping and moaning. He leaned his head down again, finally, and found the other one of Zevran's ears, licking along the edge of it, before drawing the pointed tip in between his lips and suckling on it, before biting gently. The elf cried out again, hips thrusting hard up against Owen. He could feel the hot spurt of seed adding to the slick between them, and released the elf's ear, crying out his own release. He rolled off to the side, not wanting to drop his full weight down on the elf as his limbs gave out.

They lay side by side for a while, panting, slowly getting their breath back. Zevran stirred first, found a cloth, and wiped both of them clean. "Come here," Owen said tiredly when he had finished, patting at the blankets beside him, curving his arm out to the side. "Lie down."

Zevran stretched out against his side, head pillowed on the join of Owen's arm and shoulder, and after a moment stretched his own arm out across Owen's chest, snuggling closer. Owen smiled, lifting his head enough to nuzzle into the elf's hair again, drop a single kiss on the tip of his nearest ear.

"Tell me another story," he said.

"Now!"

"Yes, now, it's too early to sleep quite yet. I want a bedtime story. Another bit of your past."

Zevran snorted, then sighed. "All right," he agreed. Again he told a story about his life in Antiva, this one about his childhood in the whorehouse. A funny little story. And when he was done, he told it again, the true story, with all the ugliness and fear and pain left in, Owen's fingers laced through his. When he was done Owen spent a little time just kissing and touching him, gently, reassuringly.

"Sleep now," Owen whispered after a while. "Here, or in your own bedroll."

Zevran nodded, kissed the mage, and moved away to curl up in his own blankets.


	6. Conversations

They quickly fell into a routine together; Zevran fetching water for a fast wash-up each morning, then both dressing, eating breakfast with the others, packing their belongings and the tent. Zevran usually walked beside Owen now, Mara sometimes with them, or skipping ahead to talk earnestly with Morrigan about magic, or dropping back to spend time with Jowan and Alistair, who's become another of her honorary big brothers thanks to his relationship with Jowan.

Zevran and Owen didn't talk very much while they walked, and when they did it was usually Owen that did the talking; stories of his own life, both as a street-rat in Denerim and as a happily promiscuous mageling in the tower. In the evening there was supper with the others, sparring, and bathing if they'd stopped for the night somewhere with a big enough body of water.

And taking care of their gear and weapons, too – Owen had a sword of his own to carry and look after now, thanks to an encounter with mercenaries out to claim the rather sizable bounty on Alistair's and Arren's heads. The mercenary leader no longer needed the rather fine sword he'd been carrying, and it was large enough to be a decent, though somewhat light, blade for Owen to use. Arren was already talking about how they'd have to look up a good smith once they reached Denerim, and see about acquiring a sword that was properly sized for the mage; his skills with a blade in combination with the arcane warrior magic they'd learned of in the Brecilian Forest, and his pre-existing combat magic and healing skills, were making the giant man a formidable fighter already. It was difficult – and frightening – for men to fight someone who shimmered with magical armour, who could cast magic to freeze or slow his foes, who if injured but not incapacitated could heal his own wounds and continue pressing the battle. Small wonder the elves had ruled this world for long ages in the distant past, if they'd had many warrior-mages with the skills that Owen now possessed.

Everything cared for at last, they're retire to their tent. Most nights they did something together, and afterwards Owen would demand another story. Zevran still told two versions of each; the way he'd tell it to anyone, and the way he shared only with Owen. That was always followed by a time of kissing and cuddling, Owen giving the elf reassurance and comfort through touch that words alone could not supply.

He could already see there were two subjects the elf avoided; one he touched on often enough for Owen to be aware that somewhere there was a man named Taliesin, an ex-partner of the elf, who he'd been in some form of relationship with for years. A cruel man and a dark, twisted relationship, by the very little Zevran said directly about it.

The other person... it was more an absence in the elf's stories that made her visible – at least he was fairly certain it was a her, from the odd time Zevran slipped and mentioned an extra pronoun in his recitations. A third partner, in some of his stories about his last year in Antiva, hinted at by the rare time when, tired and relaxed after sex, Zevran slipped up in his self-editing and said 'three' or 'them' instead of 'two', 'the pair of us', or 'he' or 'Taliesin'. And, just once, 'she'.

But never her name. Never a direct acknowledgement that there'd been a third partner, probably a woman, in his group that final year. A hole in his stories. A hole in his life. A hole he skittered away from any time he approached too close to it, returning to stories of his earlier years as a Crow, when it had been just Taliesin and himself, or even earlier, when he'd been an orphan being raised by whores.

Owen didn't press, didn't ask. He bided his time, knowing Zevran would tell him when he was able to. When their level of trust had progressed far enough.

* * *

><p>Jowan dropped to the ground beside Owen, breathing heavily after his latest sparring match with Zevran. The assassin had agreed to go a round with Alistair as well tonight, so that Jowan could see how a fight between a knife-fighter and a sword-and-board warrior went; he judged that Jowan had picked up enough skills to start learning how to stand against other types of fighters, and as Templars were what he was most in danger of having to fight against with no magic skills to hand, Alistair was the obvious choice for him to learn how to deal with first.<p>

"He's looking a lot better lately," Jowan said softly. He didn't need to specify which 'he' he meant.

Owen nodded. "He's getting a lot better," he agreed quietly.

"Good. Alistair and I owe him a lot," Jowan said.

"You've mentioned that before," Owen said, curiously. "What happened?"

Jowan made a face. "About the same as what happened to _him_, actually," he said, nodding toward Zevran. "Old memories making a very nasty comeback. Alistair had a nightmare about the night Arren and he cleared the tower – all full of blood mages and demons, very nasty stuff. I was awake at the time – trying to cut a piece of fruit, cut myself instead when I jumped. So he wakes up, sees me there with blood running down my wrist..."

"Ouch," Owen winced. "I can fill in the blank. Used Holy Smite on you?"

"But good, yes. It bounced me off a wall and knocked me right out. And then he and Wynne didn't know why I was bleeding, and decided better safe than sorry, and tied me up. Being smote brought back all my own personal bad memories and nightmares about my time after escaping the tower. And then I woke up in the dark, bound, and manaless, with this giant of a man looming over me with a knife in one hand... he'd been about to cut me loose, so lots of bad timing all the way around for both of us. Anyway, it was not a very pleasant way to wake up, for either of us. I was a complete mess, falling apart, afterwards. And Zevran hauled me off to his room and put me back together again. It took several days and a lot of talking. Afterwards... I was _scared_ of Alistair, at first. Zevran bought me a dagger and promised to teach me how to use it, as part of getting me past that," he said, a faint smile twisting his lips as he watched the assassin and the templar sparring, the smaller elf using speed and agility to try to get at the warrior, the warrior blocking with his shield, taking blows on his armour if they meant a chance to land one of his own on his more lightly-armoured opponent.

Owen grunted, eyes watching Zevran. "Interesting. And further proof of just how complex the mind is, that he could help you even when he himself was in need of help. He's... been in pain, inside, since before he left Antiva. Judging by what he's said, he ended up in Arren's group as a result of what was essentially a failed suicide attempt."

"What!" Jowan exclaimed, and darted a stunned look at Owen.

"He set up that ambush to fail; expected to die as a result. And then found himself alive and captured and at Arren's mercy instead. That's when he realized he didn't really want to die. But that's how much despair he'd been in, enough to make him _try_ to die. He's... mainly kept it hidden, ever since. Coped with it, worked around it, ignored it. Until it all came back." Owen frowned. "I shouldn't tell you any more. I can't, without betraying his trust. But you and Alistair are both his friends, so you should know at least that much. He _is_ getting better now."

Jowan nodded understandingly. "I know what you mean, about trust. I told Zevran things I've still never been able to tell Alistair, when he was putting me back together. Because I _knew_ he would never share them, with any living soul, unless I said he could." The smaller mage frowned. "Huh. And I'm suddenly remembering something that may or may not be relevant to his problem. We were talking one afternoon, and he said something in response to what I'd been talking about, and his mood changed for a while; he'd been talking fairly lightheartedly until that point – something about betrayal being hard to get past. That you have to learn to forgive yourself, first, and that it was very hard to do."

"Hmmm. That might have relevance," Owen agreed, thinking of the missing third person in Zevran's anecdotes. If it was someone he felt he'd betrayed, somehow... yes, that could be why he'd been in such despair. "I won't know until he reaches the point he can tell me about it. But it might help in figuring out how to get him to that point. Thank you."

Jowan shook his head. "I don't need thanks. Any help Alistair and I can be – anything at all – just let us know. He's our friend, too."

Owen nodded. "I will. Just that you _are_ his friends is a big help, you know. He didn't really have any friends back in Antiva; just acquaintances, rivals, targets, and people he'd never met yet."

Jowan made a face. "Sounds worse than the tower. At least _we_ had friends," he said, smiling at Owen.

Owen laughed. "And lovers. Well, at least _I_ had those, you were always pretty non-involved, as I recall. Until that Lily latched onto you, anyway," he added, expression darkening.

"Please, don't remind me," Jowan said, shuddering theatrically and making another face. "The only good thing about her is that escaping the tower eventually brought Alistair and I together," he said, smiling over to where the warrior was still sparring against Zevran, both of them with equally fierce grins on their faces as they battled, so caught up in their own combat that they'd seemingly forgotten everything except the challenge and joy of the fight. "Maker... look at them. They're magnificent, aren't they?" Jowan said, awestruck.

"Yes. Makes me want to grab Zevran and drag him off into the bushes _right now_," Owen said, voice a low growl.

Jowan grinned. "The same, for me and Alistair."

The two exchanged a look, and laughed, then watched in companionable silence as their men fought on.


	7. Arrival

How many years had it been, since he'd last walked the streets of Denerim? He'd been a gawky kid, only just starting to shoot up in height, with too-big hands and feet, and having to fight a sudden tendency towards clumsiness, dangerous in a profession that relied on nimbleness and speed. Quick of hand and quick of temper, that had been him, before his powers manifested and he was taken off the streets and sent off to the Circle.

The city seemed much the same since then, the broad details unchanged; the same smells and stinks, the same dirt and garbage accumulating in the corners, the same crowds, the same shouts, calls, cries, barking dogs, never-ending hum of background noise. Only the small details had changed, stores and eateries gone or replaced, different faces in once-familiar locations. A place or two he recognized – a bakery he used to buy bread at, or steal it when he had no coins. A white-haired woman who was sitting on a bench outside the door, keeping an eye on a small child playing in the street, might have been the woman who'd run the place when he was a boy; a matronly mother then, a grandmother now. They passed a smithy he used to visit on particularly cold days all of one winter, sneaking in a hole beneath the eaves to crouch on a rafter in a darkened corner and watch the smith and his apprentices at work, warmed by the heat rising from the forge. He wondered if the hole was still there. If some other street rat made use of that warm corner in winter now.

He glanced over at Zevran, and saw the assassin looking more aware and animated than usual; Arren, on the other hand, was looking more than a little frazzled. The difference between a city-bred and forest-raised elf, he presumed – Zevran was put at ease by the crowded environs, while Arren was clearly on edge.

Thankfully the walk to the Denerim Market from the west gate was not a long one, and the Arl's estate was right there, its entrance off of one corner of the huge marketplace, with a fine view across the square to the towering chantry. The gate guards eyed them warily, until Arren identified himself.

"You're expected," one of the guard said, nodding. "Go on in," he said, and the two stepped aside, letting Arren and his party enter the enclosed courtyard, and were passed through into the estate.

They didn't have a very long wait before Arl Eamon showed up to greet them, a servant in tow. "Good, you're finally here – I expected you two days ago. Delayed, I take it? This is my housekeeper, Martha – she'll show you all your the rooms put aside for your use. Come see me once you're settled in please, Alistair, Arren – we have much to discuss."

"Of course," Arren said, giving a polite half-bow to the man before the Arl hurried off back to whatever he'd been up to before they arrived.

The group of them were quickly divided up among assorted rooms; Alistair was given the largest and most magnificent of the estate's guest suites, with a magnificent four-poster bed and a sheepskin near the fireplace for Briar. Arren was put in a room about half the size, with a bed almost as nice, and a similar arrangement provided for Mouse. Wynne, Morrigan and Mara were given a single large room together, one with a plain double bed and a trundle bed that could be rolled out from under it. Sten and Owen were each given rooms of their own due to their size and the necessity of them each having a double bed of their own, and Zevran and Oghren were put together in the smallest room, with two very plain single beds. A few knowing smirks and smiled were exchanged among them, knowing they'd be rearranging things to their own liking later that night.

"I don't know why he gave me the best rooms," Alistair muttered as they gathered briefly in Arren's room. "You should have the one I'm in, Arren."

"He's still thinking of you as the future King, Alistair," Arren explained mildly.

"I know that. But I don't like it any more now than I did when we were still at Redcliffe."

Arren smiled, amused. "Be nice to the Arl, Alistair – remember our talk about diplomacy."

"Yes, yes, I must be polite to the Arl, because he is helping us defeat the Blight. At least in the long term. Hopefully the not too long term, all this political manoeuvring is only defeating my patience, not the darkspawn."

"Agreed," Arren said. "And you and I better go find out what he's got in store for us now that we're here. Somehow I doubt the Landsmeet is all arranged and ready to go, even with his lead time in getting here."

Arren turned and looked at the rest of the group. "Same rules as at Redcliffe – stay out of the way, stay out of trouble, and keep our host happy. Feel free to take it easy the rest of the afternoon, I doubt we'll be doing any running around before tomorrow. And stay within the estate for now, until we've got a better idea of what conditions are like in the city at the moment; I'd rather not find out the hard way that Teryn Loghain has men waiting outside to arrest any of us that stick our noses back out the door."

"Or worse," Zevran interjected. "He and Arl Howe did hire _me_, after all."

"Or worse," Arren agreed.

He and Alistair went off in search of the Arl, and everyone else returned to their rooms. It wasn't long after he'd reached his that Owen heard a quiet knock at the door. He was unsurprised to find Zevran in the hallway, carrying all his gear. He smiled and stepped aside to let him in, closing the door behind the assassin, and followed him as he walked over to drop his bags in the same corner as Owen's.

"Whatever shall we do to pass the time this afternoon?" he murmured, reaching out to twine his fingers into Zevran's hair.

The elf turned his head and gave him a very bland look over his shoulder. "I'm sure we'll think of something."

"Mmm, yes," Owen purred in agreement, pulling the elf closer and tilting his head back as he leaned down to claim his mouth.


	8. Planning Ahead

"Oh, _you_ again," the man behind the counter said, a fixed smile on his face. "And how may I help you today?"

"Herren, that is _hardly_ the way to speak to one of my favourite customers," the blacksmith called from where he was working on something over near the forge.

"If he actually _bought_ something on occasion I'd consider him a customer. So far all he's ever come here for is free advice and some minor repair work."

The smith sniffed, put down whatever he was working on, and walked over, wiping his hands clean on a rag. "You're left your delicious friend behind somewhere," he complained to Arren, after glancing at the group accompanying him – Owen, Zevran, and Oghren.

Arren smiled at the man. "Hello, Wade. I took pity on his blushes."

The smith grinned and dipped his head as if he'd been complimented, then returned to his appraisal of the group with Arren. Owen raised an eyebrow at the frankly admiring look the smith was giving him, then had to conceal a smile as Zevran shifted position slightly, ending up standing between the smith and the mage.

"You're a tall one," the smith commented to Owen, then looked at Arren.

"He's why we're here, actually," Arren said. "He needs some armour, and as you can see it'll need to be something custom made for him. Naturally I thought of you first. Especially since it'll need to be... rather _unusual_ armour."

"Naturally," the smith agreed, preening slightly. "And unusual how?"

"Owen, show him," Arren instructed.

Owen nodded, dropped back a few steps from the group, then drew his sword as he called on his powers, a shimmer of magic encasing his skin.

Herren's mouth dropped open slightly. Wade squealed and clapped his hands delightedly. "A mage! A mage who fights! What a delicious idea. And yes, I see immediately why that would need, err... unusual armour. Magic and metal just _clash_, don't they."

Owen nodded, letting the spells drop. "That they do. But Arren said he recalled talking to you about some of the more unusual materials armour can be made of...?"

"Yes, yes, he had that lovely ironwood breastplate that he wanted to sell that needed a teensy hole repaired first. Lovely bit of Dalish work, you don't see that very often here in the city. Herren sold it at a rather nice profit to a collector – stop making faces, Herren, you know you did! Anyway, if you want ironwood, I'm afraid I don't have access to the raw materials needed..."

"You also mentioned drake scale," Arren said calmly.

Oghren took that as a signal to unsling a large sack from over his shoulder, and hefted it up onto the surface of the nearby counter.

"You didn't!" Herren groaned.

Wade had already torn open the bindings holding the sack closed and peered inside. "Drake hides! Oh, you lovely man, I could just kiss you!" he exclaimed.

Arren grinned. "We could also use some more free advice. As you can see, the sword Owen is using is rather inadequate for his size, and again some material other than metal would be preferred."

"We don't _do_ weapons," Herren said sharply.

"No, but a man as knowledgeable as yourself is likely knows who all the other gifted smiths in town are, and which of them might actually stock blades made of ironwood or dragonbone or some similarly useful material," Arren told him.

"Well, _that's_ true enough," Herren agreed, looking guardedly pleased at the compliment. "You should go see the dwarven merchant at the far side of the square. He's not a smith himself, but his father-in-law is one of the best weaponsmiths in Denerim, and word is the merchant has some rather impressive contacts back in Orzammar as well. He's the only one I know of offhand who might have something special like that, but I can make enquiries if he doesn't have anything. Though my time would cost you."

By now Wade had all the hides pulled out of the bag and was sorting through them, stroking the uncured scaley surfaces and muttering to himself about tanning methods. Arren and Herren negotiated the price for Wade to make a set of armour for Owen, then Arren and Oghren headed off to see the merchant Herren had recommended, while Owen and Zevran remained behind so Wade could measure Owen for his armour.

"Watch where you're putting your hands," Zevran told Wade, scowling at the smith as he ran a length of evenly knotted string around Owen's thigh and scribbled down a measurement.

"But I'm not even touching you..." Wade said, glancing over at the assassin and looking puzzled.

Herren snorted. "Wade, don't be a fool. And watch your hands."

"Oh, all right. Spoilsport!"

Zevran and Herren exchanged a look as the smith went back to taking measurements. Owen's lips curved in a very slight smile.

* * *

><p>As soon as they were back in their room, Owen pulled Zevran into a tight hug, then kissed him ardently, raining little kisses down on his forehead and cheeks before finally claiming his lips.<p>

"And what's that for? Not that I am objecting, mind you." he asked as Owen finally released him.

"I find I rather liked seeing you act territorial about me earlier today," Owen said, grinning down at the elf. "I think you're due a special reward tonight."

"Oh? How so?" Zevran asked, one eyebrow curving.

"Mmm. Let me think," Owen purred, then bent down again, nuzzling against the side of Zevran's neck while his hands slid down, one coming to rest on the small of the elf's back, while the other slid lower yet, cupping his buttocks. He turned the hand a little, pressing and rubbing with his middle finger between Zevran's cheeks. The elf hissed and arched his back, before pushing back against Owen's hand. "How about _there_ again," Owen said softly. "We haven't since Redcliffe."

Zevran shivered, eyes dropping half-shut. "_Yes_," he answered. "I would like that... very much."

Owen grinned. "We'd better start preparing you then," he said, voice husky. "Bring me my pack."

He took his time over it, Zevran bent over his knee and moaning into the bedding as he stretched and fingered him, before finally putting in the first of the plugs.

"I'd better get my story from you now," he said, helping Zevran to readjust his clothes afterwards, then drawing him back down to sit on Owen's knee. He leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, then nuzzled into his hair. "We'll be too busy later for one."

Zevran laughed softly. "I am running out of ideas," he said.

"Mmm. Already? I find that hard to believe. Tell me more about... let's see. That partner of yours. Taliesin."

Zevran shivered, his mouth setting in a thin line.

"Would you rather not?" Owen asked after a moment.

"No. I... should tell you more about him, I suppose. He is a very complex man. I am not sure where to start."

"Start with something simple then. What did he look like? How did you meet him?" Owen asked, and released Zevran, moving to stretch out on the bed. Zevran followed him, stretched out beside him, head resting on his shoulder, arm draped over him.

"Handsome. Dark – black hair, with a goatee and moustache, dark eyes, and darkly tanned skin. Very few in Antiva are not darkly tanned, of course, as we are rather blessed with warmth and sunlight there much of the year. Some years older than myself – seven to ten, somewhere in there. Very fit, of course all Crows are, apart from some of the oldest masters. My master introduced me to him; Taliesin was in need of a new partner and my master thought we'd be a good fit for each other. We were; he was very strong in areas of our craft where I was weak. We quickly became one of the best teams in Antiva City, and remained so for many years."

"You mentioned once he was a cruel man."

Zevran lay still for a minute, only his hand moving as he toyed with the laces of Owen's shirt, before he finally answered. "Yes. Many Crows are, it is a common side-effect of our training, I suppose. Most of us come out... twisted, in some way. One has to be, to be able to kill for money as we do. Most murders happen out of anger, jealousy, hatred, _passion_ of some kind. Many assassinations do as well, but at a remove; the assassin usually does not feel any such thing himself, it is the person purchasing their services that does."

Owen waited, giving Zevran room to explain further.

"I... was twisted as well. The moment in which a man or woman would die at my hands, preferably on my blade... I _lived _for that moment. I was excited for that moment; not just mentally you understand, but physically as well. After a kill I would want sex – not love-making, but a hard harsh fucking. Taliesin... was pleased to provide that. It was the only time we lay together – after kills. His tastes did not normally run to such as I, but when I would be flushed and wanting after a kill, well, he found that exciting, even more so since at those times I _welcomed_ his darker, crueler side, encouraged it if anything."

Zevran shuddered, burrowed his face into Owen's chest. "It was like I was possessed at those times. Yet I cannot blame what we did on anyone but myself. I would be with him yet, content with that dark life, except..." he broke off.

Owen rubbed his back soothingly, drawing him close and hugging him. Zevran did not resume talking about Taliesin.

Not right then, anyway.


	9. Sweet Surrender

Supper with the Arl had been a strained affair, most of the group relegated to a lesser table with the guards and servants while only Arren and Alistair dined with Eamon. Morrigan seemed pleased to be at their table rather than at Arren's side; she didn't care at all for the man, and was just as happy to keep her distance from him. Judging by the pleasant-but-blank expressions on Arren and Alistair's faces for much of the meal, they'd have preferred to avoid his company as well.

After the Arl had retired to his own quarters, Arren rounded up everyone for a quick talk. "Looks like we'll be busy over the next few days," he told them. "There's some things the Arl wants us to look into while he's handling the final bits of politicking prior to the Landsmeet. I'd like to divide us up into two groups to handle it all; I'll be leading one group, and Alistair the other. Morrigan, Mara,Wynne, Sten, and Mouse will be with me, and Owen, Zevran, Oghren, and Briar with Alistair. So we've each got two warriors, a damage dealer, a healer, and a hound."

"And you get the extra mage because...?" Alistair asked, smiling.

"Because you stuck me with the leadership, and I'm being greedy."

"Good answer. What fun deed does my group get to tackle tomorrow?" Alistair asked.

"Well, since you have our only sneaky person," Arren said, nodding at Zevran, "You get to poke around the market and see what kind of things you can nose out. Do some chantry-board work and so on if you have time; we could use both the good-will and the money, we're running short on funds again and I'd rather not have to go begging from the Arl. My group will be following up on some rumours the Arl has heard. Any questions? No? All right, see you all in the morning then."

* * *

><p>Owen took his time undressing Zevran, the elf standing passively while Owen sat on the edge of the bed, carefully removing each piece of clothing. He handled him a lot as he did so, stroking his hands along Zevran's skin, leaning forward occasionally to lick or kiss or nibble. The assassin's eyes were half-lidded with pleasure. When he was entirely naked, Owen drew him nearer, hugging him close. "Put your arms around my neck," he whispered.<p>

Zevran did so, then turned his head and nuzzled against Owen's neck, found and lipped at his earlobe. Owen gave a soft laugh.

"Should I stop?" the elf asked, whispering right in his ear, before running his tongue around the edge of it.

"No, keep going," Owen said, voice warm and amused. He was glad to see Zevran feeling confident enough in their relationship again to begin pushing things a little. While Zevran worked a series of kisses along his jawline to reach the opposite ear, Owen picked up the container of oil he had sitting ready and carefully oiled both the next plug and his fingers, before removing the first. Zevran made a humming noise of pleasure around Owen's earlobe as the mage began stretching and fingering him again.

"Feel free to come," Owen told him a few minutes later. "I don't want you too easily triggered for what I plan to do next."

"Oh? And what is that?" Zevran managed to say in an almost normal voice.

Owen grinned and dug his finger firmly in, drawing a gasp from the elf. "You'll see," he told him, and turned his own head to find Zevran's ear, licking and nibbling on it for a while, fingers still massaging and stretching until the elf's legs were weak-kneed and trembling, his forehead resting against Owen's shoulder as he panted and made needy little moans. Finally Owen drew back from his ear, enough to speak directly into it, as he reached for the next plug. "I think we'd better decide on a safe word," he whispered. "You might need one tonight." And seated the plug, pushing it firmly into place.

Zevran cried out, hips snapping forward and pumping against Owen's stomach for a moment, almost coming from the sudden stimulation but somehow managing to restrain himself. His legs momentarily gave out, only Owen's arms around him and his own arms around Owen's neck keeping him upright.

"You," he gasped out once he could talk again. "Are a nastily creative man at times."

Owen grinned. "Some times. Come, pick a word, and then we'll move on. I have an idea for how to occupy our time while you adjust to _this_," he said, tapping his forefinger once against the end-button of the plug.

"Oh?"

"A word, Zevran," he said, voice momentarily stern.

"Yes, my mage. How about _sota de espadas_ then?"

"A little long perhaps."

"_Espadas_."

"Good enough."

"And for you? Or do you not believe you will ever need one?" Zevran asked challengingly.

Owen gave him a look, then slowly smiled. "Perhaps, though I don't think I'll need one tonight. All right. Seagull."

"The best word you can come up with is a verminous water fowl that eats garbage?" Zevran exclaimed, sounding almost offended.

Owen laughed. "You're being very assertive tonight," he observed.

"Yes. Someone told me today they liked me being territorial about them. It has me in a very good mood. As does _this_," he said, grinding his hips momentarily against Owen's stomach, making his erection obvious. "Seagull? Really?"

Owen laughed again. "It will do for now. At least you aren't likely to forget it."

"No, I will not do that," Zevran agreed. "Now, I believe you made mention of something to occupy our time?"

"Mmm, so I did," Owen said, and ran his hands lightly up and down Zevran's back, urging him closer. The assassin complied, leaning against him, arms still around his neck, but loosely now, playing with Owen's hair rather than holding on. "What I would like to do," Owen said, voice dropping low again, "Is to tie you up on the bed so you're helpless to resist, and then tease you unmercifully with touch and tongue and teeth, until you are _begging_ for release."

He felt the little tremor of anticipation that ran through the elf at his words. "That... certainly sounds suitably distracting," the elf agreed. "I am sure the time will pass with surprising haste."

* * *

><p>Owen checked that the rope tied around Zevran's ankle wasn't too tight. "Comfortable?" he asked, smiling sardonically at the bound assassin. He'd tied his wrists together, and had stretched them above his head, fastened to the headboard. A single ankle was similarly bound with rope to the footboard, not pulled tight enough to stretch the elf out forcibly, but with only a little free play in it.<p>

"Very," Zevran said. "And now what happens?"

"And now you stop speaking for a while. You may vocalize as much as you like, but no words are permitted to pass your lips. Not until you're begging for release."

Zevran nodded. Owen knelt on the bed beside his legs, facing toward the head of the bed, one hand resting on the elf's thigh, just the very tips of his fingers stroking back and forth against the soft skin of the elf's inner thigh as he studied his face.

After a bit he started to run his hand up and down Zevran's leg, sliding it right down to his knee and then slowly all the way back up to the crease of his hip. Then up higher, with a light caress in passing to Zevran's erection, coming to rest on his belly. He paused, just feeling the slow rise and fall of the elf's breathing, the quiver of his heart beating, then moved again, running one finger in a slow circle around Zevran's navel, spiralling inwards, around and around, before gently pushing the very tip of his finger into the dip of flesh. He felt the elf shudder slightly, and smiled. Withdrawing his hand, he bent down over the elf, steadying himself with a hand to either side of him, and repeated the act, this time with his tongue. The elf gasped this time, tensing as Owen's tongue-tip teased at his navel. He pulled his head back slightly, and blew air over the wet lines on the elf's belly, imagining – remembering from his own past – how the contrast between warm breath and cooling lines of saliva would feel.

He bent down again, lapping his way up the centre-line of Zevran's torso, from navel to mid-chest, enjoying the taste of his skin – a little salt and sweat, leather, sandalwood and musk, and beneath it all the taste that was _Zevran_. He blew another gust of air down Zevran's front, then shifted to one side, finding and lipping at one of Zevran's nipples, smiling against his skin as he felt it pebble and rise up. He flicked his tongue-tip once, firmly, across the very tip of it, then shifted sides and repeated the action with the other nipple. For a couple of minutes he just paid attention to Zevran's nipples, switching back and forth between sides, now licking, now suckling, now biting gently on them.

He moved again, straddling the elf, bridging over him, and lowered himself down, keeping most of his weight on hands and knees, until he could kiss him, the elf's straining erection just barely brushing against his own belly. As he plundered Zevran's mouth the elf groaned, hips straining upwards for contact. Owen raised his own higher into the air, preventing real contact, then lowered again as the elf subsided, letting a little more of his weight come to rest against him. He teased him like that for a few minutes, only lowering enough to have real contact between them when the elf lay still, withdrawing whenever the elf started to move. And all the time kissing him; his lips, his cheeks, his chin, his neck. Some close-lipped and dry, others open-mouthed, with plenty of tongue laving wet circles on the elf's skin, mixed in with the occasional firm bite.

Zevran was panting and gasping now, making little needy sounds every time his hips moved and Owen withdrew. Owen changed position again, moving higher up the elf's body, his knees to either side of Zevran's ribs now, so when the mage settled back his buttocks came to rest on the elf's groin, trapping his erection beneath him, carefully settling down more and more of his weight until the elf was pinned to the mattress, unable to move. Zevran gave a heart-felt groan at the pressure of increased contact. Owen could feel his muscles tensing and relaxing as he tried to thrust and couldn't, too much weight holding him down, motionless.

He reached down with both hands, brushing Zevran's hair back, then fondling his ears in synchronization, tracing the edges of their sharply-pointed shells, rubbing the firm tips between thumbs and forefingers. The elf's head titled back, eyes closing, breath rasping between his clenched teeth.

Owen growled, and swarmed back down the elf's body, lowering himself to engulf the elf's cock in his mouth, hands pinning down Zevran's hips now, as he took the elf deep with a couple of practised swallows. Zevran gave a hoarse, surprised shout of pleasure. Owen moved a hand only just in time to tightly grasp the root of his erection, preventing him from coming. He withdrew his head slowly, keeping his lips sealed in a tight ring around Zevran's straining cock, laving against it with his tongue, sucking lightly, until the tip slipped free from with mouth with a barely audible popping sound.

He lay there motionless for a long moment, keeping the elf pinned down, hand still tight around his base. He waited until Zevran calmed a little, urgency fading, then leaned down again, running his tongue up the underside of his cock. The elf made a high keening sound as he tongued at the sensitive skin to either side of the large vein there, pausing to pay extra attention to the spot just under the flared tip. And withdrew again, as the elf again came close to orgasm.

It wasn't until he teased him a third time that Zevran finally exploded into words, writhing against the ropes and the weight of the mage, begging.

"_Please!_ Owen, please, _please_... let me... ahhhh, _Maker!_ Owen!"

"Very good," Owen said gently. He moved away, keeping his grasp on Zevran's erection, sitting down on the bed beside him, and waited for the elf to subside a little again before finally releasing him entirely. Tears glistened in Zevran's eyes, pooled to run down his temples into his hair. Owen moved forward and leaned down, cupping his head gently in his hands, tasting the tears, licking them away. "Very good. _Shhhh._ You need to calm first, Zevran, and next time I'll let you come."

The elf nodded, breath shuddering in and out of him. Owen sat back again, resting his open hand on the elf's ribs, waiting until he had stilled, breath evened out again.

He picked up the oil container, poured out a dollop of it, spread it across his hand, then in one motion coated Zevran from root to tip. The elf gave him a startled look.

Owen smiled, amused, as he moved to straddle the elf again, reaching back between his legs to quickly oil his own entrance. He guided Zevran to the right spot, then slowly began lowering himself, biting at his lower lip as the elf's tip gradually forced him open, then slipped inside. He lowered himself further, his own breathing going short and eyes fluttering shut at the feel of the elf slowly stretching him, sliding deeper into him, filling him. Finally he stopped and sat still for a moment, the elf buried to the root inside of him. "Feels so good, Zev," he muttered huskily, then opened his eyes and looked down at the elf. "You?"

"_Exquisite_," Zevran groaned.

Owen smiled. "Good," he said. And began to move, a slow up and down at first, increasing his pace as his body accommodated to the intrusion. He carefully adjusted his position, arching his back, until he found just the right angle and Zevran's tip rubbed against the sweet spot inside. He gave a guttural cry of pleasure at that, and picked up his pace, riding Zevran more vigorously, fucking himself on the elf's cock. Over-sensitized from all the teasing that had gone before, Zevran didn't last long before he cried out in wordless pleasure, hot seed spurting into Owen. The mage was only a couple of strokes behind him before he, too, spasmed in orgasm, his spend spurting out onto Zevran's belly and chest.

He slumped forward, letting his weight come to rest for a moment on hands to either side of the elf, Zevran's fading erection still trapped inside him. He stayed like that for a minute, while he caught his breath, enjoying the fluttering feel of the elf's erection slowly shrinking and subsiding within him. Finally he moved, picking up a cloth and reaching down, wiping Zevran clean as he rose off of him, then himself, before tossing it aside. He reached out, resting his hand on the elf's stomach again.

"Ready to change to that third plug now?" he asked, grinning down at Zevran.

The elf groaned and twitched, unconsciously trying to curl up at the thought. He swallowed nervously. "May I... ask something..." he said, hesitantly.

Owen looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Ask."

"Please... skip the third plug. Take me as I am now. I... we spoke of Taliesin, earlier... how at times I _liked_ the way he took me, hard and harsh. I... can you take me that way? Give me a new memory, to combat the old ones..."

Owen drew a long slow breath. "If you're sure," he said. "Then, yes... I can."

Zevran nodded, eyes closing tightly. "I'm sure."

"I'll... need some time to recover first," Owen said softly. "Rest for now. Both of us will," he said, and stretched out beside the elf, keeping his hand on him, possessively, comfortingly.

* * *

><p>"Still sure about this?" he asked Zevran as he knelt down on the bed beside him.<p>

"Yes. Please."

He nodded, and finished oiling himself, using a bit more than he normally would have. Without the third and final stretching the elf was going to be painfully tight. This was going to be uncomfortable, for both of them, and yet he couldn't say that he didn't find the prospect... intriguing. Back when he'd first begun waylaying templars in dark corners, it had often been as much painful as pleasurable – there'd rarely been time for proper lubrication or stretching, just a fast moistening of their cock with his mouth before he was bent over and taken. And he'd enjoyed it, the edge of pain mixed in with the pleasure, the almost frenzied excitement at times of the man behind him. Usually neither of them were even properly undressed, just him with his robes hiked up to his waist and the templar spilling out the comfort flap hidden under the skirt of their armour, the edges of their tassets digging into his buttocks as they thrust into him...

No, giving the elf what he wanted was not going to be a problem. Doing it without injuring him, given their difference in sizes, was the only real issue.

He leaned down, kissed Zevran gently. "Use you word if you have to," he reminded him. Zevran nodded, his eyes drifting closed, breath hitching just a little in anticipation.

Owen moved down the bed, rolling Zevran over onto his side, free leg uppermost. He lifted it up, hooking the elf's knee over his elbow, straddling the thigh of his outstretched lower leg. He withdrew the plug and quickly scooted forward, positioning his tip against the elf's puckered entrance.

"Deep breath," he ordered, and once Zevran had taken one, pushed forward and in, his grip around the elf's upper leg and the rope holding his outstretched lower leg giving him the leverage he needed to force his way in. Zevran cried out hoarsely, a sound echoed by Owen's own cry as he pushed in deeper, feeling the tightness around him of muscle and tissues forced to stretch uncomfortably far to accommodate him, the heat building so quickly it put him in mind of wood catching fire.

Zevran was keening now, Owen swearing, as he shoved and pushed, forcing his way ever deeper. He felt a sudden tightening around him, heard Zevran cry out again, and knew the elf had come already. He hissed, waiting for the clenching to stop, _willing_ himself not to orgasm yet, then resumed pushing, burying himself deeper into the elf.

He was seeing sparkles in his vision when he finally stopped, deciding he'd pushed in as far as was likely safe. Zevran was sobbing now, little broken cries and hiccups, overwhelmed. He reached down, fitting his finger around the join of his body and Zevran's, sent a slow pulse of healing warmth into the strained tissues, feeling their aching tightness relax just slightly.

And began to thrust, not the slow careful strokes of love-making, but a harder, faster pace, withdrawing and thrusting hard back in, ramming himself into the smaller man as vigorously as he dared to.

Zevran wailed and babbled, fighting against the ropes that held him bound, against Owen's hold on him, against the intrusion. When the elf came again, it was with a raw-throated scream, and this time Owen succumbed as well, his seed spurting hot and wet into the elf, his final pumping thrusts sliding slickly through the mix of oil and spend.

He felt dizzy in the aftermath, would have happily collapsed to one side to rest, but knew the elf needed care now. His own limbs were trembling as he disengaged from Zevran, wiped the two of them reasonably clean, untied him. Zevran had torn the skin of his ankle, fighting against the ropes at the end; he healed that, then checked his rear, spending more healing energy there to assure himself that there was no injury. He settled down beside the elf, drawing him up on top of him, into his arms. Zevran clutched him tightly, cried against his shoulder. Owen ran his hands soothingly up and down his back, murmuring quietly into his ear, words of comfort. Zevran gave a last hiccuping sob, a sigh, and then went limp and slept, arms still wrapped around Owen's neck.


	10. Betrayals

Owen woke as Zevran shifted and twitched, muttering in his sleep. A nightmare, he thought. He was considering whether to wake him when Zevran jerked violently. "_Rinna!_" he cried, startling upright, the sudden shift of his weight driving the air out of Owen's lungs. As the mage struggled to breathe the elf slid off from on top of him, curled up in a ball beside him, weeping bitterly.

He rolled over, closing his arms around the elf's shoulders, making soothing sounds as he held him close. After a few minutes he stopped crying and uncurled, raising a tear-stained face to look at Owen.

"I... I dreamed," he stuttered out, then fell silent again.

"A nightmare," Owen agreed. "Can you tell me what it was about?"

Zevran shuddered, then turned on his side, stretching out against Owen, his head buried against his chest, still shaking. "A memory. A story I haven't told you yet."

Owen said nothing, just held him close, rubbing his hands up and down his back. After a while Zevran gave a little sigh.

"My last year in Antiva. We had a new apprentice... there had been others before, but they were nothings, not worthy of notice. She was _special_. Deadly, tough, graceful, beautiful, wicked, a marvel to behold at work, and elven like me, with hair black as night, eyes green as emeralds, and skin as golden as new-minted coins. Rinna. And I did what Crows should never do – I fell in love with her."

He was silent for a long while, then resumed talking. "I did not realize, of course, that I was in love, having never experienced the emotion before. I merely thought myself more enraptured with her than I had ever been by any other person. For a time the two of us were happy, sharing time together, working together, sleeping together. But we were Crows, and it could not last."

He shivered, burrowed against Owen's chest, his arms tightening around his neck.

"Taliesin and I had a particularly difficult assignment given us; a wealthy merchant with many guards. It had to be a quiet job, the man killed without it being obviously the work of the Crows. A death that looked like an accident would be best. We spent _weeks_ in careful research, Taliesin planning how we would accomplish it. And then the day we were to do it, his guards were on alert, in higher number than normal; there was no way we could get close to him, no way to pull it off. We withdrew. Taliesin approached me later. He had evidence that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, warned him..."

He fell silent again, breathing going hoarse. Owen could feel the moisture of further tears where the elf lay against him, feel his shoulders shuddering, and held him tightly, saying nothing. Zevran resumed again, voice flat and nearly emotionless. "We confronted her. Taliesin produced his evidence. She _begged_ me, on her knees with tears in her eyes, saying it had not been her. She had not done it. That she _loved_ me..." his voice broke for a moment, resumed at a near-whisper. "I laughed, not believing her. There was the evidence, was there not? And Taliesin stepped behind her, and pulled back her head by her lovely long black hair, and cut her throat. She stared up at me as the blood poured out, and I spat on her, and called her cruel names as she died."

Another silence, before the whispering speech resumed. Owen hugged Zevran close, one hand petting over his hair again and again, the other locked around his shoulders. "When Taliesen and I assassinated the merchant, we found the true source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all. I... wanted to tell the Crows what we had done, our mistake. Taliesen convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt. We needn't have bothered. The Crows _knew_ what we had done. There was a master who disliked me; he told me so to my face. He said the Crows knew... and they didn't care. And that one day my turn would come, too."

Another silence, a very long one. "I was already half-mad with grief over what we had done when I learned it had been no mistake. Taliesin had known all along that the evidence against her was false – had co-operated with that master in arranging her death. He... did not like my relationship with her. I do not know if he was jealous of her for having me, or me for having her, or both at once. I wanted to kill him, kill the master, but even more, I wanted to die. I fled Antiva, came to Ferelden. And here heard about the contract on the wardens, the contract none here would take since it was likely to be suicide. I could have done it, of course, the local Crows are little more than common thugs, while _I_ was one of the best in Antiva City itself. I _wanted_ my attempt to fail. And it did, and then... I didn't die. Arren took my surrender."

"And now I have," Owen said softly.

"And now you have, too," Zevran agreed, raising his head to look at Owen. "It... feels good to speak of this to someone. I swore I never would." Another silence, a brief one. When he spoke again, his voice was tired and drained. "Whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it."

Owen leaned down, and pressed a kiss to his forehead, a chaste one, and held the elf while he cried silently for a while longer before finally drifting back to sleep.

He'd been right that this Taliesin was a cruel man. And resolved that if he ever met him, the man would die.


	11. Awakening

Zevran woke slowly, not snapping wake as he normally did. He smiled, finding himself pressed up chest-to-chest against Owen, his head pillowed on the mage's outstretched arm, the man's other arm draped around his waist.

He remembered waking in the middle of the night; the nightmare. The one he'd had so many times, of Taliesin cutting Rinna's throat, while he laughed and called her cruel names. The memory of it still hurt, but today the hurt seemed more... _distant_... than it ever had before. He'd told Owen about her; the first time he'd spoken of her to anyone since he'd fled Taliesin's bed, fled Antiva, and come to Ferelden.

Spoken aloud, for the first time ever, the important words; that he had been in love with her. That there had once been an elf named Rinna, and he'd loved her, and they'd both been betrayed. And she was dead, and he had continued living. He thought he should cry, then, but nothing came, no tears. Just an aching feeling deep inside, like a healing bruise.

Owen stirred then, his arms tightening around Zevran. His eyes opened, and he smiled. "Good-morning," he said muzzily. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Even as he asked his hand glided lower, touched Zevran intimately, warmed briefly with healing magic. The ache faded away, both the ache of over-stretched tissues and the ache deeper inside.

Zevran smiled. "You spoil me. I like it."

Owen laughed, and pulled him close in a hug, rolling over so the assassin was sprawled out on top of him, a position the mage seemed to favour. Zevran felt something pressing against his thigh, and smiled, moving his leg to rub against it. "Should we do something about _that_ before we get up? It is early yet."

Owen smiled, slowly. "Why not," he agreed, and took his arms away from around Zevran, pushing himself further up the bed to sit half-upright against the pillows and headboard, while Zevran moved further down, kneeling between his legs. He paused with his hand cupped near Owen's erection, glanced up at him for permission. Owen smiled, nodded, settling back to watch.

As he wrapped his hands around the base of that thick shaft, and lowered his head to encase the tip in his mouth, Zevran kept his eyes on the mage's face, watching his reactions to what the assassin was doing.

Such a large man, and strong, too, not just physically but in every way. A warrior's heart, and yet still so much a healer in everything he did. One who controlled with amused looks and comforting touches and implacable persistence, not cutting words and harsh touch and cruel punishment.

Someone he trusted.

Someone who perhaps made it worth it, that he had continued to live.

He would have smiled, if he could, as he said with hands and mouth and body what he couldn't yet bring himself to say any other way.


End file.
